


The Luck of the Draw

by tentacular-moon (the_three_garridebs), the_three_garridebs



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter RPF, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Daddy Issues, Dark Draco Malfoy, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Eventual Smut, F/M, Lonely Draco Malfoy, Lots, Pining, dramione - Freeform, okay anyway, wow there's a tag for that that's fucking sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26487835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_three_garridebs/pseuds/tentacular-moon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_three_garridebs/pseuds/the_three_garridebs
Summary: Every year, a few Gryffindor Hogwarts students pull names out of a hat to see who has to pay the annual visit to Draco Malfoy, their old arch-nemesis. Hermione has never agreed with the tradition, but goes along with it. What happens when Draco finds out? About: healing from the past, confronting the present, and figuring out the boy who was chosen for the wrong side.(I did not intend for this to have a very Jane Eyre sort of feel, but that's what's happening, and I can't control it. So know that.)~Excerpt~“Draco,” Hermione turned around, slightly stunned. He was wearing tall black boots and a dark sweater, evidently just come in from taking care of the thestrals. His face had changed over time, though the smug wrinkle of his brow had never quite went away. Year to year, Hermione worried that he was becoming a bit wretched, surrounded by all these memories of death, in such a lonely, desolate place. He didn’t seem to mind, though.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Comments: 19
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have another fic (flight) that is exactly the same plot line, just a little different, so that's why it may seem familiar. I am copying myself! I just wanted to rewrite this story with some details changed up and a different way of Draco figuring out what's happening. Hope you enjoy! (Comments are appreciated!)
> 
> \- H

The house was nestled deep in the heart of a hidden woods, obscured by a cloud of mist that evaporated at the word “gold.” Black thestrals milled around the front, ornamenting the shrubbery like Muggle decorations. It was a quiet, permanent sort of place. A resting place.

Hermione shivered in the cool autumn morning, pushing open the wrought iron gate that twisted around the property. As she slipped across the flagstones, red and yellow leaves spun through the soft light, everything hushed and delicate. The few other times she’d been chosen for the yearly journey, she’d made her visit in the winter, a barren and lonely season. Autumn was much warmer, even though she was still wearing a full coat and scarf. 

She reached the front door. The silver door knocker gleamed imposingly, a regal symbol that suggested much of the famous Malfoy wealth had been preserved after the war. Hermione patted the few little things in her pockets, each one a guilty olive branch. With a deep breath, she lifted the heavy silver knocker and knocked twice. To her surprise, his voice came from behind her.

“Look who it is.”

“Draco,” Hermione turned around, slightly stunned. He was wearing tall black boots and a dark sweater, evidently just come in from taking care of the thestrals. His face had changed over time, though the smug wrinkle of his brow had never quite went away. Year to year, Hermione worried that he was becoming a bit wretched, surrounded by all these memories of death, in such a lonely, desolate place. He didn’t seem to mind, though.

Draco brushed ahead of her and opened the door, inviting her in.

“What’s your story this time, Granger?”

“Just popping over because. Um. I was around.”

“Around here?” They moved into the majestic foyer, which contained only covered paintings and a few old family heirlooms, all surfaces glossy and speckless. Draco led her into the sitting room, which had a long dark table, deep leather seats, and worn books on every surface.

“Y-yes,” Hermione said, moving in behind him. She felt a great urge to tell him everything, to reveal the cruel game they’d been playing over the years, but she heard Ron’s reprimanding voice in her head: Y _ou’ll regret it. He’ll gut us all. Even the cat._

“Hm. All the way out here, in the middle of nowhere. Far from home and the Prophet, just roaming around and upsetting thestrals.” He turned to her, offered a teacup that had materialized on a side table. “What a coincidence.”

“I didn’t upset your thestrals.”

“How would you know?”

Draco sank into one of the chairs, gestured that Hermione do the same. She sat across from him, feeling chastised, as though his green eyes pierced right through her forehead and perceived the horrible things that were said about him. At the Prophet. With Ron. At the Ministry. Every horrible whisper about him carrying the poison of Dark magic in him, having the Mark still…she grimaced, thinking about it.

“How have you been?” he said, a note of mocking in his voice.

“Well. What about you?”

“Fine.”

Somewhere deep within the house, a clock chimed, signaling the emptiness of their conversation, of all their conversations. Hermione wondered how they’d grown so distant over time, how Draco’s world had drifted so resolutely away from everyone else's, his orbit of odd merchants and small town wizards. Exactly the opposite of what they’d expected him to become.

The heir to Voldemort. Another Chosen One.

“I’ve got some presents.”

“Oh?”

“Just some small things, from us. We don’t see you often.” Hermione cringed at the insincerity of her own words, wanted to crush them back into her mouth. She looked down to hide her expression, rummaging busily through her pockets, removing a few parcels wrapped in newspaper. Draco leaned forward, the sun catching the silver glint of his hair. A hot flare of shame ran through her, and she felt her face growing warm. _It’s shameful, utterly shameful…_

“Books. And…liquor. From Ron. Um, and this thing. Ginny bought it, I think it’s something to do with thestrals.” Draco peeled away the newspaper on a spindly object that looked like a cross between a protractor and a telescope. He put it up to his eyes, squinted through it.

“It’s for tracking flight patterns. I already have one.”

“Sorry—“

“But this is a much nicer one.” He fiddled with the dial. “Very useful. Practical Mrs. Potter.”

“That’s her,” Hermione said awkwardly. Out of all of them, Ginny and Draco had kept the most closely in touch following the war. Hermione imagined it was their mutual connection to Draco, which was Harry. They talked about him. Gossiped, even, about his career as an Auror. Hermione disapproved, and told Ginny so. But then, Ginny rarely listened to advice. 

“How’s Neville? Luna? All the rest of the bunch.”

“All fine, doing well.”

“Good. That’s good. Haven’t seen Neville in ages. Too scared to come round?” He smiled, but Hermione sensed a hint of weariness in his voice. She felt another stab of guilt.

_Yes. They are still scared of you. They don’t know you at all, and they probably won’t ever bother. We tell ourselves that the past is in the past, but who can forget? All the battles that we willingly endured, every child convinced their classmate is the evil enemy. House against house. The whole world, convulsed in on itself. The hatred that burns centuries old, and burrows bone-deep._

_Yes. He is too scared to come round._

“No, he’s just busy with Herbology. You know how he is. We keep on bothering about coming out, but he’s says he has lots of experiments to mind, and gardens to tend.” _Not true. He says he won’t ever forget what side you were on. Those were his exact words, in fact. “He chose his side.” As if it matters. As if you were not the same as us, fighting for what everyone told you to fight for._

“Hmmm. He was always skittish.” Draco laughed to himself, a faraway look in his eyes. The remainder of the parcels sit between them, some untouched. He toyed with his own cup, lifted it to his mouth. The handle was gilt silver, with a Slytherin serpent is emblazoned on the side. There was still so much pride in him, the same unbowed pride in being from a Slytherin family. Not a Gryffindor or Ravenclaw among them.

“You could always write.”

“I know that.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Draco shrugged. “Don’t feel like it, Granger.”

“Why do you still call me that?” She laughed, and realized she had been holding her breath.

“That’s who you are, isn’t it? The Granger girl. The Weasley boy. My mother did hate you all so much,” Draco said thoughtfully, mirth in his eyes. “Ah, she was an enigma until she died.”

Narcissa was dead. Hermione sat forward. The news surprised her, though she knew it had been long-coming. Narcissa Malfoy had not been well for a long time. The war had worn her down. The false hope and expectation of being favored in the new order, the utter disappointment of Draco turning. Narcissa’s sickness was commonly spoken of.

“Oh, sorry.” Hermione choked a little; she tried again. “Sorry, Draco.”

“She wasn’t well.” He shrugged, and the dark knit of his sweater shifted across his broad shoulders. Suddenly, he leaned forward.

“Stay for dinner.”

She shook her head a little too violently, pulled her coat closed. She couldn’t stay for dinner, and be in that house. Knowing the bitter, vicious things people said about him, and the terrible trick they were playing on him. Even though she loved his house. The high ceilings, sparse furniture. It felt so occupied by Draco. Hermione could picture him in every room, filling out his books, pacing before the hearth. Safe and secure and alone and far from _them_ , the people who knew him well enough to hurt him.

Struggling to keep her thoughts from her face, she stood up to leave. Draco stood as well, looking surprised, and not a little hurt.

“Well, goodbye then.”

“Yes, sorry. Can’t stay, long journey home, of course. I’ve got lots of deadlines. And Ron, and he’ll be expecting me back, and all. I just can’t stay, unfortunately. Not this time.” Excuses leapt from her mouth, seemingly against her will. “Yes, take care though, Draco. I’ll see you.” 

Without looking back, she fled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is chosen to be the visitor. Draco is caught up in the past.

**_~_ ** **_One Month Earlier ~_ **

“I don’t think we should do it this time. Why don’t we just invite him to the Christmas party?”

Ron set a tin of cakes on the ottoman. “It’s tradition, Hermione. And he’s a ghastly fellow. Can’t have him coming round the place, spoiling everything with his sour expression.”

Ron did a fair impression of Draco’s scowl.

Hermione chuckled uneasily, said “I suppose. But at some point, it has to stop. It’s horrible.”

“Are you kidding me? This from the same girl who socked him in the face?”

“We were kids, Ron.”

“Still.” He mimed a punch. “You always got to him.”

The doorbell rang, and a host of other former Hogwarts students came spilling through the door. Ginny and Harry were first, then Luna, Angelina, Lee, Dean, Seamus, and Pansy, who arrived last and barely glanced at Hermione. Understandable. From the entrance of the flat, Hermione watched her sweep across the living room and peck Ron sternly on the cheek, somehow affectionate and reprimanding. Hermione sighed inwardly. Ginny and Harry exchanged looks.

So this is how everyone was going to find out.

Excitement mounted as warm mugs were exchanged and sweets passed round. Hermione sunk into a quashy seat they’d inherited from the Burrow. All the warm faces glowed. Her friends. The kind, resilient, smart people she loved. And they were capable of this incredible cruelty. She couldn’t understand it. Well. That wasn’t totally true. She could. She was going to put her name in the hat, as she did every year.

“Alright!” Seamus clapped his hands together cheerfully. Ron produced a worn hat from behind the sofa, the same one they used every time.

“I’m not going over there,” Angelina said, scribbling her name on a toffee wrapper. Harry laughed. “You may not have a choice on that.”

Ginny filled out her ballot and dropped it in the hat, looking thoughtfully at Hermione. The quirk of her eyebrow foretold a lecture. Hermione smiled weakly in return, waving her wand to conjure the ballot she had already written. 

Good-natured shouts sprang up as Harry shook the hat, papers rustling. Pansy laughed at something Ron said, the tips of her ears turning red. 

“Okay, who wants to see Malfoy?”

Seamus gave a throaty call of approval, and slapped Dean on the back, who promptly spat out the mint pasty he’d been chewing on.

Then, the critical moment. Hermione waited with bated breath, gripping the arms of her chair.

Playing up the drama of the moment, Harry stirred his hand around the hat. “Who is it going to be? Poor sot! I don’t envy this wizard—or witch!” Ginny slapped him lightly on the arm.

“Get on with it, Chosen One.”

“As you wish.”

With a theatrical flourish, he cast his wand towards the center of the room, and Hermione’s name sprang up, spelled out in scraps of ballots.

“Hermione Granger! Lucky girl,” Dean said, taking a swig of Butterbeer. The others laughed, assured her that she was the best witch for the job.

“Sorry, Hermione,” Harry said apologetically, recalling the scraps of paper back into the hat and disposing of them with a flick of his wand. “You’ve been chosen three times now.”

“I know,” she said quietly. Crookshanks wound through her legs, leaving little ginger hairs behind in her grey stockings. Hermione scratched her behind the ear. 

“Should we talk?” Ginny asked, eyes locking onto Hermione. Harry instinctively recognized the signal and occupied himself with the conversation Dean and Seamus were having about Quidditch.

“Um—“

Without waiting for an answer, Ginny grabbed Hermione’s arm and dragged her into the kitchen, away from the chatter of their friends. Hermione looked down at the tiles, avoiding her gaze. She didn’t want this to be the way Ginny found out, but she was forcing the issue. Hermione felt a wave of resentment wash over her. She was always being pushed around by one Potter or the other. Going wherever they went, doing whatever they did. Always the know-it-all afterthought, Potter’s right hand. Now, it was no different. And they weren’t at Hogwarts anymore.

“You and Ron aren’t together anymore.”

“No.”

“And when were you going to tell me this?”

Hermione looked up sharply. “I didn’t think I owed anyone an explanation.”

“Well, you’re a part of the family.”

“That doesn’t mean I owe you an explanation, Ginny.”

There was a burst of laughter in the other room.

Ginny’s mouth tightened into a line, and her expression hardened. Hermione unconsciously took a little step backwards.

“We’re the only family you’ve got. You don’t belong anywhere else. Not the Muggle world. And no wizards or witches in your lineage. We’re your family, and you don’t treat us like it.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. Her mouth fell open, but she’d lost all ability to speak, or move.

“I’m not trying to—oh, well, look. You can talk to me, Hermione,” Ginny said. She straightened out her blouse, glimpsed at herself in the reflection of a copper cauldron sitting on the stove. Hermione heard a little voice inside her head saying urgently, _you know she’s right._

It was her brother. It was her _family_. And Hermione was just a guest. 

“I know. I’m sorry,” she whispered. She felt tears gathering beneath her lashes. “When he got with Pansy, it happened so fast after we stopped being together. I haven’t found anywhere to stay yet, that’s all.”

Ginny looked into the living room, where Pansy had her arm slipped around Ron’s neck, and Ron’s hand was gripping at her waist. They looked happy. In love. They suited each other, in an odd way. Pansy had small, precise features, but they softened whenever she looked at Ron. It seemed he’d made a chip in her icy personality. Angelina whispered something in Luna’s ear, who giggled, and looked in Ron’s direction.

Hermione sniffed into the sleeve of her sweater.

“I suppose it’s not such a secret anymore.”

“Kind of humiliating I had to drag it out of you.”

“I’m sorry, Ginny."

“No.” Ginny put a hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. This is all wrong. Ron is a git.”

“Yes, he is.” Hermione smiled tearfully.

~ ✶ ~

**_Present_ **

Draco stoked the little hearth, watching the red flames lick upwards into the chimney. Hermione’s expression…it had been so familiar. Just like always: arrogant and stubborn. He smirked to himself. The Granger girl, fresh from the fall. Her nose bright from the cold, boots tracking wet prints across his pristine floors, fine freckles in the same hectic pattern as the leaves that came down like rain. He scratched his poker thoughtfully through the coals, sending up a burst of heat. Why had she turned skittish at the end? Draco laughed softly to himself and stood up.

 _So afraid_ , he thought, without malice or bitterness. _As they have every right to be._

He slumped into his chair, took a long draught of the fine Muggle liquor Ron had stolen from some obscure corner of the world, idly manipulating the flames using his wand.

What had compelled him to ask her to stay? Perhaps that was the better question. Why did he feel entitled to her company? Draco was glad he was absolutely alone so that no one could witness the ridiculous smile that spread across his face. He was not entitled to her company, but he craved it. Her gentleness. Her immovability. Draco watched the fire morph into a perfect sphere, then break apart.

It was not her fight, the one against the Dark. She had not grown up being fed the same old ghost stories, bred into the same old bigoted disputes. It was a conflict, inherited. Passed down by another generation of ancient wizards, who’d been scorned by each other in their youth. Draco felt a flash of shame go through his body. _And to think I could have harmed her, while it was all happening…that I could have harmed any of them…_ He imagined what he would have done on that fateful night when the world began to unravel. What if she had wandered into his crosshairs? What if she had appeared before him, with his father standing over his shoulder? 

Draco pushed up the sleeve on his left arm, touched the faintest outline of the Dark Mark which was still etched on his skin. He’d tried everything to remove the mark, but no one had really wanted to help him after seeing it, and Draco couldn’t really blame them. Sometimes, it still burned, a fierce, horrible burning, a punishment sent from the Dark. For abandoning the Dark. He knew there were several in the expansive clans of Malfoy and Black that lurked in the shadows, still waiting for their chance at resurgence. Draco shuddered at the thought of being called back to arms. The mark twitched, sending a light shiver of pain through his arm. Always there. Always a reminder. 

Lurching out of his seat, he finished the rest of his glass, and grabbed the bottle from the ground. The emptiness of the house depressed him. He’d bought such a large place because he figured others would need a place to stay, after the war. But everyone had retreated to their respective sides. It seemed only Draco was cast out from both, having turned from the Dark, but betrayed the trust of the noble. So he was banished.

Hermione, she would understand. Always hanging around Harry and Ron, children of two of the most respected wizarding families in the world. Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes while he took another drink from his bottle. _As if Harry were going to be some outcast. This was all tailor made for him! They were leaders, true leaders…everyone had loved the Potters._

Hermione, though, she was not from those kinds of families. She was on her own. Even more so now, after what she’d done to her poor parents.

Draco stumbled into a wall, held himself upright. Realized, in a moment of drunken clarity, he’d been thinking this a lot, recently. That they were similar. More similar than he was to Harry, who would have always been given his throne, no matter what.

A stab of disappointment went through him, the same disappointment at the bewildered look in her eyes when he’d asked her to stay.

Serves him right, he supposes. 

Draco ran a hand through his hair, pulled it lightly back into place, trying to get a handle on himself. Why did she even visit, if she was just going to run away? He missed her. He’d been missing her this entire time. 

_Not as anything at all_ , he thought blearily, draining Ron’s present of its last contents, _not as anything._

With his free hand, Draco directed his wand towards the hearth and extinguished the flame. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another day, another chapter. i'm still figuring out where this is going, but i hope you're enjoying it so far! 
> 
> \- H


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione returns to Draco's home in the woods, finding him a little drunk and out of sorts.

He’d asked so politely. So hopefully.

Hermione shook her head, as though attempting to erase the memory of his expression from her mind. The handsome, careworn face, crestfallen. As though she’d destroyed him.

And what right did she have? She was just as bad as Harry. She looked down at the letter she was writing, using her wand to see the words in the dim lighting of the pub.

 _Dear Ron, I think I’ll stay in the town for a short while. It’s nice here, and the autumn season is beautiful…_ _I saw Draco today, and maybe he could do with some company…_

Hermione swirled her drink around the stout, brassy mug, listening to the gentle chatter of other patrons. She was getting tired. The road looked dark, outside. But she remained seated, still torn about where to go. Home was becoming an increasingly grim option. She imagined Pansy, curled up in an armchair, swishing through one of Ron’s reports. The dark hair falling over that perfect, alabaster cheek, and the long legs, extending from some perfect black skirt. In their new flat, together. Hermione had gotten the old apartment, in the final breaking-off of things. And it wasn’t a shabby place. Just a little…empty.

Hermione was not bitter about Pansy Parkinson, not _at all_. She was an alluring complement to Ron’s chummy puppy act, a shot of welcome venom. And was she a little blunt? A tad rude? Hermione took a sip of the stew-like mixture in her mug. _Maybe_. But she was also smart, and funny, and beautiful. Hermione knew it was all for the best. It stung—a little, hardly—that he’d found someone, and Hermione was alone, but it was _for the best_. 

She recalled Harry’s visceral shock, a few days after their lotto party.

“ _Pansy_?”

“Yes.”

“The Weasleys are very proud of being Gryffindors, they’re a Gryffindor family. She’s a Slytherin. The most Slytherin there is.”

“Well, not all of us can I have a little royal marriage.”

“I suppose…"

“It must be very easy for you to judge us, but—“

“Now, wait, that’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

Hermione was not bitter. Not at all. 

She considered going back to Draco’s house in the woods. She didn’t like the thought of him knocking about that ridiculous palace all alone. He’d ached in her direction when she’d left; she’d felt it like a vibrational force. And there was something perversely fulfilling about being needed. Draco had wanted her. And not another soul wanted her in the entire world, the magical one or the real one.

Hermione knew she had a purpose in this world. She’d played some minor role in their history, occupied a place proximal to that of the Chosen One. And that made Hermione important, according to the logic of wizards and witches, who seemed so breathlessly obsessed with their own mythology. Harry and Ron often forgot that she was a true mudblood, someone who was borne of two non-magical parents. Neither of them understood the split feeling. Harry almost did, since he’d been raised by two Muggles after his parents died. But they had always known that there was going to come a day where he’d be returned to the wizarding world..

Hermione remembered thinking she would become a dentist.

It was still a small part of her.

Hermione looked into her now-empty cup, shame rising in her face. She had no right to continue punishing Draco. She had been complicit for too long.

She flicked her wand at the table, and a few coins landed with a clatter beside her mug. The grizzled wizard running the bar gave her a creaky look, then returned to polishing a teacup. Hermione picked up the letter she’d been writing to Ron, sealed it, and stuffed it in her pocket. Then she turned and walked quickly out of the pub, boots quickening over the gravel as though slowing down would weaken her resolve.

She was going back to him. She never should have left him in the first place.

It was completely dark, at this point. Hermione could see her own thin breath in the air as she sped down the village’s main street and turned on the overgrown path that led through the woods. The moon was heavy in the sky.

With only the tip of her wand to guide her, she crunched through the foliage. Hermione felt a thrilling sense of relief, that she might finally tell the truth to Draco, and bare all their misdeeds over the years. She gripped her wand tighter, the beam of light jittering as she stumbled over a branch.

_Finally._

She pushed past the gate, sped up the past, and picked up the heavy knocker. The deep sound echoed throughout the grand front entrance.

There was a disorganized scuffle, the sound of shattering glass, and then Draco Malfoy was standing in the doorway, looking…drunk.

Hermione stepped back, her boot landing with a sharp _tap_ on the bottom stair.

_Oh._

In his right hand was the neck of a bottle, which Hermione dimly recognized as the gift Ron had procured for him. The bottom had been smashed off somehow, and the jagged edge of the neck left a trail of dewy liquor on his dark pants as he gestured with it. His other hand held him upright, the tension straining the black stain of the Dark Mark on his forearm.

“Granger.” His face twitched, confused but not displeased. 

“Draco. Um. Are you busy?”

“Not really anymore.” He looked down at the piece of glass in his hand with a bemused expression, as though he were unsure what he’d been doing to begin with.

“Can I come in?”

“S-sure.” He stuttered. She pushed past him, shivering at the drafty interior of the house, cold from the open door and empty hearth.

The door slammed behind them. Draco trailed after Hermione, who moved into the dark living room. His steps were imprecise, as though he were concentrating too hard on where he was putting his feet.

“I haven’t even left you for five hours, and you’re such a mess already.” She turned to him with a cheerful smile, wand in hand. 

“Hm.” He looked at the floor, cheeks glowing. “I’m sorry that I’m sort of…” he set the broken bottle he was holding on a table, scratched his forehead, “in a state. A bit.”

“It’s okay.”

She drew close to him, smelled the unsavory mixture of wines and liquors on his breath, his collar a little undone and his hair beginning to fall out of place. He looked lost, more lost than she’d ever seen him. The aching loneliness she’d felt before crept out of him like an aura, a dangerous potentiality wavering in the space between them. Hermione suppressed the urge to lean forward, touch his mark, soothe him like she’d wanted to so may times in their meeting. She settled for pressing his hand over his, taking the lean, cold fingers into her own.

“I don’t mind that you’re in a state,” she said gently, catching his gaze and holding it, “but I don't want you to hurt yourself accidentally.” Hermione nodded in the direction of the shattered glass, which was strewn in front of the fireplace. “Will you let me clean it up?”

“Oh, no. Don’t, it’s alright.” He swerved forwards into her space, regained his balance.

“No, I will. Why don’t you just sit down.” She directed him towards one of the stiff leather seats that populated the living room. 

Obediently, he sat down.

Hermione drew a bubble of warmth with her wand, expanded it to encompass the room. It was a simple, but effective charm, and would keep them sufficiently heated. After uttering another simple command, golden light spilled into the few lamps Draco had mounted to the wall.

Then she turned her attention to the glass. It was clearly a mistake, something to do with the wall coming up sooner than Draco had expected. Hermione flicked her wand in the direction of the glass. Not for the first time, she wondered at his other habits.

“Why did you come back?

His voice was clear and sober. Hermione watched the glass crunch into itself, forming a new shape, smoothing itself out.

She considered, at that moment, telling him about the lottery. But it wasn’t fair to deliver the news when he wasn’t prepared to hear it.

“I was worried. About you.”

_And that’s not untrue._

_I do worry. More than you know._

She heard him move restlessly in his seat, scoff.

“Sure.”

“I was,” Hermione said softly, kicking the ball of glass and watching it disappear into smoke. “I am. You don’t know how much I care about you.”

“You fled from here like I’d shown you a corpse, Granger.” 

Bitter clarity returned to his voice.

Surprising herself with the truth, she said, “I was hurt by you. The way you looked. All hunched in on yourself, and lonely. I was frightened, I was frightened of how much that one look hurt me.” The words dropped between them, complete and whole, and Hermione was taken aback by her own boldness.

Draco made a noise of disbelief.

She waved her wand and the small puddle of liquid on the tiles evaporated.

“Do you still want me to say?”

“Yes.” It was gentle.

Hermione drew herself up, and turned around to face him. He was leaning forward in his seat, sleeves still pushed above his elbows. He looked like he was coming to his senses, though he’d tugged his hair entirely out of place, and he looked considerably less polished than when she’d first seen him in the afternoon. Hermione realized suddenly that it’d probably been a long time since someone had last come to stay with him.

“Don’t worry about anything, I’m sure I can find a room in this old place.”

“I’m not worried.”

Draco stretched out as much as the love seat would allow his tall frame, his knees bending unnaturally over the armrest

“There is only one bed in this house, Granger. You’re going to take it, and I am going to sleep here. I can’t move anyway.” 

“But—“

“Just turn off the lights, and go up the stairs. I’m sure you’ll find it.”

He closed his eyes, to signal he’dmade up his mind.

“Go, Granger.”

“Fine, fine. Alright!”

Hermione turned down the lamps in the room and crept out. The house was quiet and huge, at night, and for a moment she felt extremely out of her depth.

 _What am I doing here…_ she walked up the stairs, dreading the sight of his ludicrously expensive bed, a strange squeamishness in the pit of her stomach. It was his private place, an intimate place. A place she did not deserve to be. She did not want to see the place where he was his most private self, after seeing so much already. 

But he had insisted, and he’d be disappointed in the morning if she did not do exactly as she was told.

Hermione pushed open the heavy door.

The interior of his room was, like the rest of the house, sparsely furnished. There was a large, unmade bed in the center of the room, facing a window hung with dark green drapes. On the dresser and nightstand were hundreds of books, all worn. The desk held the most interest. Hermione fingered the expensive silver letter opener, tapped the black folios that could only be opened with a special password. Spinning dizzily on a small gold stand was a Remembrall. 

Hermione took off her coat, as weariness descended over her. It had been a long day. She slipped off her dress, cast about for something to wear. A sweater that had been discarded on a chair would have to do. She put it on and magically adjusted it so that it came down to her knees. Then she steeled herself, got into bed, and pulled the heavy comforter over her body.

The smell of him was overwhelming. It dark and faintly musky, the same woodsy scent that thestrals had. But there was also something sweet, like Christmas cinnamon. Hermione held herself still, trying not to feel anything, to dwell for too long on the feeling of the sheets on her bare skin, where he’d probably tossed and turned himself. The effort wore down her last remaining energy, and it wasn’t long before she succumbed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed the chapter ~~~   
> comments are appreciated <3   
> sorry this took so long, i'll try to update again soon! 
> 
> \- H


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione learns more about why Draco went into thestrals.

_Pain_. Blinding pain.

_Damn it—_

Draco lifted his head off the hard leather armrest, neck stiff from spending so many hours in the same cramped position. Swinging his legs off the opposite end of the seat, he sat upright, scrubbed a hand over his face. Sunlight streamed through the windows, washing the living room in brightness. Draco caught a glimpse of himself in a silver plate on a table near the fireplace.

_Oh, for Merlin’s sake. I look a wreck._

Slowly, remnants of last night came back to him. Hermione, showing up unannounced. The glass. He looked at the fireplace, which had been cleaned up, probably by Hermione. The only physical reminder of the evening was the neck of a broken bottle, which rested on a side table near the love seat. 

Draco squeezed a hand over his wrist, trying to wake himself up. Seeing his Dark Mark, he rolled his sleeves back down, re-buttoned the cuffs. He should probably try and wash himself, get dressed. It was not charming to slip into old habits, he knew. Draco recalled the early days of living here, alone. Sitting for many days in complete isolation, paging through books of magic, Dark and otherwise. Trying to get rid of the mark, but it was stubborn, and would never go away, regardless of how much blood he shed…

He rose unsteadily, careened through the grand entrance and mounted the staircase, legs threatening to give with every step. Draco was surprised to see his door was slightly ajar.

Then he remembered.

 _Hermione_.

He paused at the top of the steps, unsure if he should knock, or just enter. It was his house. But then, she was his guest. Draco settled for rapping lightly on the wood.

A strangled sound came from within the room.

“Draco?” Hermione said, voice still scratchy with sleep. There was a brief rustling, and then she appeared at the door, smelling of his bed and her own cidery scent. Her hair was shifted to one side of her head, and she was wearing a sweater he assumed was magically elongated. Without quite knowing why, he felt embarrassment between them, though nothing had transgressed during the night and they had been sleeping on separate floors of the house. He realized that it was probably odd for her to sleep in his bed, and he shouldn’t have been so insistent on her doing so.

“You’re here.”

“Well, yes.” She fiddled with her hair, redistributed the mass of brown curls from one shoulder to the other. “It’s a nice room.” 

Draco mentally rebuked himself for being so idiotically self-possessed. 

“Hm.” He seemed to be stuck in place, distracted by the fullness of her presence, of her being near him. And with him. The appropriate words fell out of his mind as he drank in the sight of her, not quite awake, legs bare under the hem of his own clothes. 

The thought burnt possessively in his mind, and he squashed it immediately

_You're not going to mess this up._

“Do you want some clothes?” 

“I have a dress from yesterday.” She yawned mid-sentence, rubbed her eyes. 

Draco mastered himself enough to shrug. “Suit yourself.” 

They regarded each other. It was strange for anyone to look at him like this, particularly in the morning.

“I have to dress.” He looked down at himself.

“Oh. Right.” Hermione moved backwards into the room, gathered her things. “I’ll just go to the wash down the hall.” Draco could tell she was eager to break whatever odd tension had sprung up between them.

“You should take your time.’

“Nonsense.” She sidled past him, avoiding his gaze.

Draco watched her walk purposefully down the short hall and into the wash, then entered his bedroom, feeling like a voyeur in his own home.

She had transformed the whole room, just by sleeping there. Draco shut the door behind him and walked over to the bed, staring unbelievingly at the small scoop in the covers where she’d slept. He put his hand over the divot, felt the warmth of her body, now evaporating into the morning chill. He gripped the sheet, so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

_You. Are. Fucked._

Shaking off a bone-deep hunger, Draco went to his closet and took out a new set of shirt and pants, both of dark grey wool. He went into the small wash in the corner, and splashed some water on his face, muting the reflective quality of his mirror with a single command. He didn’t need to see his own wretchedness.

~ ✶ ~

_His bed._

Hermione sat on the edge of a stone bath, hugging her knees. The information that she had stayed the night at Draco Malfoy’s house, _in his bed_ did not absorb into her brain, she could not comprehend her own behavior. It was a level of impulsivity that almost qualified as acting out. She worried she was here for herself, not for him. What if morbid curiosity drove her to stay and care for him, not genuine concern for his wellbeing? 

She waved her wand, uttered a mild charm. She felt grime lift from her skin, strands of hair untangle themselves.

Why had he allowed her to stay? _Wanted_ her to stay. Hermione stood up, looked at her slightly shabby figure in the mirror. 

_I was in_ his bed.

She smoothed down the front of her dress and steeled herself to leave the wash. It occurred to her that she hadn’t spent more than three minutes with Draco in years, and here she was preparing to bother him for an entire day. This abandonment of _reason_ and _sense…_ an intriguing new thread in her complete unraveling. Hermione met her own slightly disoriented gaze, the candle-smoke darkness of his scent still faint on her clothes.

Sighing deeply, she opened the door and plunged into the sun-warmed house, slipping lightly down the stairs to the enormous kitchen. 

It was clear that the place was underused, and the sight of its austere cleanliness both impressed and concerned Hermione. She opened up the cupboard, rooted around. Her concern deepened when it became apparent Draco didn’t keep any food in the house. What did he eat? Hermione flung open empty cupboard after cupboard, coming up on a couple dust bunnies, and heavy dishes engraved with the Malfoy crest.

She withdrew her wand and waved it in the direction of a tea tray, watching cups and kettle fly through the air. Draco’s slightly hesitant gait sounded in the grand entryway, and Hermione busied herself with a small jar of sugar cubes, her heartbeat accelerating at the thought of seeing him. Like this. In the morning, at his most unguarded and fresh. 

With some nostalgia, she remembered Hogwarts in the dead of winter, when the windows glowed amber with light, and students clad in black tumbled through the powdery snow. And Draco, on those exuberant outings, his nose tipped with red, and his laugh pealing across the space between their complicated snow forts. Just children.

Friends for the morning.

Draco appeared at the opening between the entrance in the kitchen, the strands of his hair smoothed down to the back of his head. The memory dissolved, and Hermione was faced with the very real, considerably older Draco, whose face was not mischievous but charmingly apologetic.

“I suppose you’ll be rushing home,” he offered awkwardly. Draco coughed, arms swinging at his sides, as though he couldn’t decide whether or not to put his hands into his pockets. 

“Not really.” Hermione swished her wand, and a cup full of tea passed through the air to the space near Draco’s left shoulder. He took it down with a nod.

“No? What about…the Prophet. Deadlines. Our mutual chum, Ron.”

Of course. Draco was always the last to know things in their circle; it was likely no one had told him of their split.

“We’re not exactly together anymore.”

His eyebrows lifted over the rim of his mug.

She pressed on, speaking at a measured clip.

“Didn’t work out, between us. We’re still great friends. Just not together. And it’s alright, because Ron’s with Pansy now.”

Draco moved his cup away from his mouth, and Hermione nearly laughed at the shock on his face.

“Pansy?”

“That’s exactly what Harry said.” She shrugged, took a sip of her own tea. “You’re twins,” Hermione added teasingly.

He shook his head. 

“A real breach in tradition.”`

“A Weasley and a Slytherin?”

“A Parkinson and a weasel.” 

She laughed, and was endeared by the relief in Draco’s face. He was unpracticed at jokes, but extremely earnest in his delivery, and Hermione wondered just how long he’d been left alone out in the middle of nowhere.

“I don’t mean to intrude on your day, though, if you’ve got anything going on,” Hermione said. She didn’t know why she was speaking in this way. Circling around her object. It was rare for her to be so indirect. Probably meant that she was uncomfortable. Hermione shifted form one foot to the other. Well. Not uncomfortable in a _bad_ way, uncomfortable in a newness way. Uncomfortable with the memory of his pillow, pressed firmly against her cheek, and how safe and correct the feeling was, and not foreign or cold at all.

They regarded each other in the airy kitchen, sipping tea.

“ I’m not busy, actually. But I do have to tend the thestrals, if you’re curious at all.” He smiled tentatively.

Hermione felt a puff of relief, and pointedly ignored it.

“Sure." She set down the cup. 

After Draco revealed that he _did_ keep food in the house—it was all shoved together in one tiny cabinet near the main table—they ate a light breakfast, and went out. The crisp morning revived something in Hermione, and she felt braced for the day. Something about the blueness of the sky and the pale sun shot her heart through with energy, and she almost, _almost_ forgot that at some point, she was going to have to tell him the truth about their lottery.

For now, she shook the thought from her head, refocused on walking safely over branches and listening to pleasant murmur of Draco’s commentary as they reached the end of the front lawn. He gestured down a short path, the end of which was marked by a large, brick red building. Stables. 

“That’s where they live, most of the time. I come out every morning to see how they are…the little ones need the most attention.” 

They started down the path. Hermione hugged her shawl over her shoulders, and looked surreptitiously at Draco’s face, free and fearless. The farther along they got, the redder his cheeks and ears became, his pale skin flushed with exertion. Hermione had the strange urge to touch his warm neck with her cold hand, see him hiss at the difference in temperature.

They arrived at the stables.

Thestrals of various sizes milled peacefully around the front and back, black and mysterious. Hermione had been repulsed the first time she’d seen them. And now…She followed Draco’s instructions, pet the knobbed neck. They seemed liked the gentlest, sweetest of beasts. 

“How many are there?” The thestral she was petting put his delicate snout into her palm, rooting for sugar. He snorted when he realized she was empty-handed.

“About twenty-five, total.” Draco went round to a secure shed, and returned with a bucket, which directed itself to the feeding troughs and lay meat at the bottom.

“No one expected…” her voice died. The thestral lost interest in her, turned to the troughs. One by one, the creatures crowded in, smelling blood. A baby thestral lagged behind and was encouraged by its mother.

“No one expected me to go into thestrals,” Draco finished. He stood beside her, his face blank and hard to read.

“I know what was expected. That I’d become some Death Eater. Kill all of you. Take your bodies to the Dark Lord and then accept my place as his successor.”

Hermione stiffened at the flatness of his tone. She regretted—

“Yes, that’s right,” he continued, “I’d kill you, kill my parents, even. Kill Lucius to prove something. To Voldemort. To myself.” His eyes had gone glassy at the memory, and Hermione had a feeling that he was no longer completely aware of what he was saying. “The old world order, disintegrating in my fist.”

“Draco—”

“While the bodies pile up. Every wizard who had ever stood in the way of the Dark Lord, reduced to ash. Them, and their children, and their children’s children. And I am standing at the center of it all, because I was _Chosen_ …” he spat the word. “So much death.”

They watched the thestrals devour the red meat.

“But you made a decision,” Hermione insisted to him before he could speak again, not daring to look at his face. A string of blood dribbled from the mouth of the baby thestral. “You made a decision to be better.” 

“And I paid dearly for it,” he said, gesturing at his charges. “I paid with my entire life, and no one sees that.”

He turned his flashing silver eyes on her. His lean body was taut like a bow, intent on destruction. Of himself. Of everything. Instead of feeling frightened, Hermione was curiously calm. She stood at a polite distance, as the disdain flew from him like particles of ice.

At the sight of her, he seemed to come back to himself.

“It’s okay.” She touched the sleeve of his jacket, and he flinched violently backwards, rustling a few low-hanging branches. The feeding thestrals looked up at the disturbance.

Draco exhaled. Steadied himself.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Hermione said again, and the voice in her head said, _you’re still lying to him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sooooo late, but I'm still working on this story. Do not give up on me!  
> Comments hugely appreciated. <3 <3 <3  
> Happy election day, American readers. 
> 
> \- H


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